


behemoth: a love letter

by dirigibleboyking



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/F, Fairy Tale Elements, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 00:31:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9048158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirigibleboyking/pseuds/dirigibleboyking
Summary: White roses, answers the behemoth, are the angels of Death.(Ah; she had thought so.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SwanqueenEndgame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwanqueenEndgame/gifts).



> to my wonderful SwanqueenEndgame. yours to read, to not read, to daintily pick at or ravenously devour. putty in your hands, darling. with love & many merry christmases from your favourite gallant.

"People have forgotten this truth," the fox said. "But you mustn’t forget it. You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed. You’re responsible for your rose."

-Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, _The Little Prince_

 

 

**i.**

On the first night in the forest they sat on opposite sides of a silver candelabra and watched each other over the five flames.

Tell me, said Charlie.

Not much to tell.

Are you kidding? Come on, take pity.

Those books were so damned embellished that the real story'd only disappoint you, said Dorothy. She had a set of odd, nervous mannerisms that Charlie couldn't help tracking. Right now she was picking at the skin of her fingers with her nails, without looking.

Then don't tell me the real story. I don't want the real story.

What?

Not that I don't think it'd be cool. I mean, from what you've said it sounds totally amazing. Like if _Wizard of Oz_ had been written by Angela Carter or something. But if you don't want to tell me what happened, don't. I mean, I'll listen if you do. I'll listen whatever. But I can't _make_ you or anything.

So what, then? Dorothy's eyes narrowed. There was blood on her cuticles where she'd been picking at them.

Tell me your story.

I don't understand.

Tell me your story, said Charlie. And stop picking your fingers to bits.

My story, said Dorothy. Do you mean...?

I mean that The Wizard of Oz and all that stuff- that was your Dad's story, right? And that's all cool. But it wasn't the truth. It wasn't what happened. And you have what happened to you. All the stuff you did and saw. And that's the truth but it's not the same as your story. Your story can be whatever you want to tell me. Make it as stupid as you want.

Well, Red.

(And O the gorgeous and peculiar elegance with which Dorothy crossed her legs and crossed her wrists and _looked_.)

Basically I'm asking you to make up loads of ridiculous crap, said Charlie.

Dorothy smiled for the first time that evening. It was twisted, just a little, like the branch of an old tree, grown wrong.

Stop smiling before I fall desperately in love with you or something, said Charlie. But she didn't.

　

I was a great kid, she said. O but I was brilliant at chess.

Charlie had still not come down from her last gale of laughter and had to breathe several times before she could reply.

Chess? Seriously?

No, said Dorothy. I couldn't play chess. I was terrible.

Charlie started laughing again.

O but I was a magnificent child. Dorothy was badly impersonating an Irish accent. O but wasn't I splendid. Engineered my first flying carpet by the time I was four did I. The manufacture of rainbows followed with barely an interval. 'Twas a natural progression to motorycles. I had hair like the pelt of a glorious ermine and topazes for eyes and was I not a witch.

A witch?

With cogs for chickenbones and wheels for wishes. O but princesses from all over the realm came to my door but did I not refuse them all.

Did you not, said Charlie, a bit wistfully.

No, said Dorothy. Not all. Not half, Red. And she bared her teeth when she grinned. Shiverworthy.

So, said Charlie. You said. Princesses?

Princesses with red red hair and beautiful bones. Princesses like wild meadows. Princesses who didn't know when to shut up with the questions, Dorothy said. Fake accent gone.

Princesses with collarbones. Princesses with hunter's hands. Princesses with blueveined breasts and goldveined hearts. Princesses whose clothes smell like bonfires.

Tell me what colour your eyes are.

Can't you see, said Charlie, scratchy-voiced.

No. The flames...

Green, she said. They're green.

Green? What kind of green?

Sort of. Mud-grayish? Oh, God. Not good. Not good, right? I'm not selling this.

Dorothy rolled her eyes. And this isn't a whorehouse. Be as mud-grayish as you want.

Oh. Well. Okay.

The candelabra still between them, silver-rusted, ancient. Dorothy reached over it. Charlie didn't move as a hand found her throat and settled there. Fingers splayed over her windpipe, firm and gentle, the heel of her hand fitting perfectly in the hollow where the twin wings of Charlie's throat met.

They sat for a minute, hand on throat, feeling the machinery of meat expand, contract, like a bellows. Charlie felt her own heartbeat, threatening rapid. But when she reached over to tangle fingers in Dorothy's hair the hand left her throat suddenly, and withdrew.

Dorothy said, So, Red. Tell me a story.

Charlie stared for a moment.

What?

I told _you_ a story-

Oh, come on. You told me _part_ of one.

It's your turn.

Charlie tried to think but she didn't want to be pulling off any marvels tonight. Even if they were only story-marvels. She felt all scattered.

Alright, she said. But we both need to lie down and close our eyes.

Dorothy looked amused.

I didn't, said Charlie. I mean. That's not what I. Anyway. Lie down? Please?

They lay down, one on either side of the candelabra, looking up past the treetops, into the stars.

Usually when she was getting ready to recite something- which only ever happened in bed, at night, either alone or with someone- Charlie cleared her throat, her voice became clearer. None of that this time. She spoke quietly, didn't try to blot out the ringings and catches of her own true voice.

_The owl and the pussycat went to sea_

_In a beautiful pea-green boat;_

_They took some money, and plenty of honey_

_Wrapped up in a five-pound note._

_The owl looked up to the stars above_

_And sang to a small guitar..._

**ii**.

They came here for a monster, originally.

To kill it, of course, but also- on Charlie's part at least- just to see it. It was an act of faith. So they entered the forest.

Hey, you know, it's funny. You'd think it'd be colder. December and all.

Places like this don't always follow your rules, Red.

Well, I'm not complaining. Except maybe from a climate change perspective. But I guess that rule doesn't apply here either?

Correct.

The only thing is I kinda wish we had some snow. You know, a white Christmas. I guess you had a lot of that stuff as a kid? (Or was Bing Crosby even a thing then?)

Snow? O yeah. Damn menace. We used to spend most of Christmas Day out shoveling off the paths, and that was if we could actually get out the doors.

Wow. A pause. Sounds- nice, though. In a way- I mean, not to, like, devalue your hardship or whatever, but it sounds cosy.

Dorothy raised her eyebrows. Says, If you like being trapped.

It was almost casual except for a certain tightness around her mouth.

And you don't, said Charlie. Hey, are you claustrophobic? Man, that has to suck.

I'm not claustrophobic, said Dorothy. I'm a hunter. Call it dislike. I'm not claustrophobic.

Well, okay.

You can't be a hunter if you're claustrophobic.

Sorry I asked.

　

Behemoth. Creature the size of a house, flesh like milk and eyes like opals. An albino thing. Like a giant and glutinous moth. It had killed numerous people and even more cattle. The forest was its garden, in a sense. You might wish to remember that, Dorothy said, next time you stop to stroke a peacock.

And- fingers in Charlie's hair- We cannot let our guard down.

As they passed through the trees Dorothy made herself firmly aware of her hand on her knife, her moving feet, the pale sky. It was important to stay focused. Grounded in texture and sound.

They walked and all the rustling speech of the leaves translated itself into low soft music. She inclined her head, listening. Peeled down to the warm leather handle against her palm and the rushing of the woods. After a while the noise seemed to fade, though it remained just as loud, just as distinct; she wondered if it really existed, or if it had just been her mind giving body and symphony to silence. She could no longer tell whether the whisperings came from the trees or from deep inside her own skull.

A touch to her shoulder and she jumped.

Hey, said Charlie. You zoned out.

Oh.

No worries. It happens, huh?

(And there it was again, Dorothy's own damnable suceptibility, that hitch of weakness that allowed that first strange silver Glinda kiss to stain her so, that made poppies plunge her into dreaming, that allowed this place to exert such swooniness over her. A vulnerability that wasn't present in Charlie. Why?)

It's okay, said Charlie.

She turned her head. What?

They were passing over a brook, a murmuring rill. The air did not feel chilled but when she stooped to collect a handful of water (and conveniently hid her face from Charlie as she bent) it was as cold as might be expected in December.

It's okay, said Charlie. We all have weak spots, right? Stuff that gets into our heads. It's why you hunt with a partner.

I don't hunt with a partner, said Dorothy blankly.

Charlie blinked. (Flash of uncertainty, of regret; Dorothy hadn't meant it like that. But too late to correct herself.)

I meant you in the general sense, Charlie said. Not _you_ you. You as in hypothetical you.

No. Of course.

　

Later, sitting round their candelabra. Eating marshmallows out of a packet. Charlie cross-legged, Dorothy lying on her side, whittling something from a bit of wood.

So there's something I always kinda wanted to know, said Charlie.

Go on.

Charlie bit into a marshmallow and spoke around her mouthful. You and Glinda. What was up with that?

Me and Glinda? Nothing much. Kiss on the forehead, pinch on the ass, woosh, she was off. I was pretty young, anyway.

How old were you?

Thirteen or so. Call it the defining moment of my childhood.

Wow. Jeez. Charlie paused. Said, Care to elaborate?

Hm. Dorothy stared at her carving. Surprised to find that, yes, she would care to elaborate. She would care to impress Charlie.

So, she began. I was a dreamy girl, for a start. My daddy loved books, was always telling me stories. Sometimes he'd make up these long yarns and spin them to me as fact, and I'd believe him, and a few hours or a few days later he'd bust out laughing and tell me he'd made it all up. That's the sort of man he was. And when I was a kid I had this dream, you know, I used to dream about getting married.

She paused. Went on: _Really_ married. Dumb meringue dress, _Lohengrin_ , the whole nine. And I'd imagine this out down to the last detail. Only thing was that the groom, he was this faceless brown-haired guy in a smart suit and a carnation in his buttonhole. And, sure, I was a kid. But even as I started growing up, this guy, he never changed. Just stayed brown-haired and faceless.

Charlie smiled.

And then, aged thirteen, off I went to Oz. And- witches aside- the thing is about adventuring, you start to get stuff about yourself. What I figured out is that I'm a wanderer, plain and simple. Marriage, kids, family, picket fences- I couldn't do it. I got home and never dreamed of getting married again. Oh, it messed me up. I kept trying. Even got engaged this one time.

Jeez, said Charlie. How'd that work out?

Dorothy grimaced. Could have been better, put it that way. I mean, I liked him alright before that. But being tied down to him for the rest of my life? Christ. No. Ended up pitching him. Two weeks later I got back to Oz. Was slipping in and out of there on the regular before the wicked ol' witch got loose in the Bunker. And, well. You know the rest.

She paused. Said, carefully: I guess Glinda means something to me.

Yeah?

To get there. As this- this skinny, colourless kid in gingham and plaits. And she was beautiful. She was so beautiful. Did I tell you that?

No. You didn't tell me that.

She was beautiful. Hair like gold silk. Smiled like she was laughing. Freckles on her nose. Don't know how old she was. That's the thing with witches. Her dress like an illustration from a fairy tale. And she kissed me.

Once?

Just once.

Charlie speared a marshmallow on a twig and held it into the fire. Threw another to Dorothy, who caught it in her mouth and made Charlie laugh.

Now, went on Dorothy, mouth full, If you want the nasty stuff, try the witch of the East.

I thought you squashed her with a house.

Well, yeah, but she didn't _stay_ squashed, if you know what I mean.

Charlie groaned. Oh, man, what is it about witches.

I know, said Dorothy, Like cockroaches. Anyway, we kind of. Had a thing.

You had a thing.

Yeah.

Man, Dorothy.

I was in an army campaign. Long story, but I'd more or less been press-ganged. She killed a bunch of us, kept me, we screwed, I escaped, the end.

Whoa, whoa, tiger. You are totally telling me the rest of that story sometime.

Rolling her eyes. Fine, said Dorothy.

They let marshmallows brown in the fire. Above them the moon was pale and clear.

Something else I kinda want to know, said Charlie.

Yeah, Red? Dorothy's carving was beginning to take shape now.

Why haven't you kissed me yet?

Dorothy didn't stop whittling. She stared at what she was carving. Red, she said, Kid.

Don't _kid_ me, said Charlie. I'm older than you.

Listen, said Dorothy. I like you. Really. I think a lot of you. But you can't expect me to be into you just because we're together a lot. You got that?

How about I don't got that, said Charlie. You know that's not what I'm saying.

Then what, said Dorothy, Are you saying?

I'm saying the way you look at me when you think I don't notice.

Pause.

Dorothy said: Listen, Charlie, I think you're great but I'm not into you and you aren't into me either. Now let's end this conversation because frankly it's getting tedious.

Oh, whoa, whoa. Don't tell me I'm not into you. Cut the crap, Baum. I know my own damn mind.

No. You think you do. But you only think that because you haven't seen inside- Dorothy tapped her skull- Here.

Don't bullshit me.

I don't feel that way about you, said Dorothy. Yeah, I wouldn't kick you out of bed. But trust me when I say that I'm shallow. You'd be disappointed if you tried for anything with me. I'm not capable of feeling for anyone at the moment. It's just not in me. Okay?

She had stopped whittling at some point; couldn't remember when. And her hands were shaking. But she picked up the knife and in the silence began scratching away at the carving again.

 **iii**.

Cave of the behemoth, a maw in the green hillside. Dorothy stood in front of it, shining her torch. Charlie just behind.

We going in any time soon?

Yes, said Dorothy. Of course.

But she didn't move. Stayed standing.

I'll go first, offered Charlie.

No, said Dorothy. Absolutely not.

You don't need to protect me. Actually, you know what, you're the claustrophobic one here. _I_ should be protecting _you_.

Dorothy rolled her eyes. O, for the love of-

Charlie stepped past Dorothy. Into the darkness without even a light.

No! Red-

Dorothy pushed past her, stood in front of her, arms outstretched to meet whatever dire thing would sweep towards them in the black. Stood panting, and nothing came but silence.

Overreaction much, said Charlie.

You didn't know what was in here. That was reckless of you.

Reckless of me? You didn't know either. (All in whispers.) I know you think I'm barely a hunter. I know you think I'm this young, stupid-ass, virginal damsel but man, Dorothy, you have some serious fact-checking to do if you think that-

Quiet, said Dorothy.

What? Oh, come on-

No, said Dorothy. Look. And she shone the torch, in and in and in.

She could have been referring to the snowdrift of petals that weltered the floor, knee-deep, stirring up echoes of perfume whenever they moved. Something rich and old and gold. Or she could have meant the glimpses of beautiful clothes, a velvet sleeve, or something sewn with tiny moony stones. Or a jade-laden headdress. All rising from the browning petals like gorgeous shipwrecks in miniature.

Dorothy stretched out her arm with the torch, tried to see how far back the cave went. Behind her Charlie shifted, and something crunched.

Human bone, said Dorothy without looking round. She felt Charlie's shudder. And now picked out in the beam of the torch she could see them, mired amongst the flowers with all that costumery; fragments of bone, teeth like weird white jewels. A lavish sea of lace and flower and human relics.

Behind her Charlie took a step. Wavered. Dorothy watched her stagger. It was the scent, the delicate lovely reek of this place; dizzying. Understandable that Charlie could not remain upright. In fact her own knees were feeling weak.

Let's lie down, said Charlie.

That, said Dorothy. Sounds nice. And it did sound nice. There was something wrong with it, though. With lying down. She stayed on her feet.

Red, she said. Charlie...

Mmm.

I feel. I don't know. Odd.

She swayed. Charlie was huddling down amongst the petals.

Yeah. Lie down, babe.

Dorothy said, Why are you calling me that?

Dunno. Charlie's voice muffled by the flowers. I just am.

Dorothy tried to remember why she wasn't supposed to lie down.

Red?

Mm.

I feel.

I know. Lie down.

Dorothy looked down. O screw it. Might as well die with her if worst came to worst. She lay down. Huddled in behind Charlie. Chest to her back. The strength of Charlie's spine against her own stomach.

Hey, said Charlie.

Yeah.

We're spooning.

Oh.

I'm really tired.

Me too. She buried her face in the back of Charlie's neck. Opened her mouth against the top bump of her spine. Breathed in the smell of her hair. Rich and old and gold.

Hey, said Charlie.

Yeah.

Was gonna say something. Can't remember what.

Oh.

Babe.

Dorothy bit, gently, that nub of bone.

Babe, said Charlie with a smile in her voice. Babe.

One last time before falling asleep.

**iv.**

Charlie wakes slowly. Light filtering through her eyelashes. Treetops above her: no longer in the cave. She sits up slowly; she's alone. Looks down at herself.

She's wearing a dress, golden, heavy, rich brocade like she's never seen before. Bodice heavy with more pearls, pearls in her hair and her ears, pearls at her throat. Pearls shifting and running down like water when she moves to stand. She feels ornate. Bejewelled. The dress is torn near the neck, her breast nearly spilling from it. Bodice-ripper, she thinks, and nearly giggles.

And scattered over the forest floor, pearls. Strewn in the grass like spiders' eggs or rain. Obscene carbuncles, milky and unearthly, some misshapen, monstrous, some tiny. Scattered around her and glimmering.

Feet bare. Arms bare- strange to see them so pale against all that deep gold. Running her hands over her hips to feel for pockets but there aren't any. Even though everything she wears has pockets. It's her rule. Even before since she started hunting. Strange, too, not to have a backpack. Strange the pull of heavy material as she walks, like the moon-tug of the tide. Strange the pearls and the fruit. She thinks of paintings seen long-ago, scenes of Bacchanalian revelry, fleshy women and satyrs with twisted brows, grapes drooping from every languid hand.

Over the past days she's grown to like this forest, with the soft grass, the soft breeze, the gentle gnarled presence of trees. It's dim here- the trees stretch off in every direction- but pale light sifts quietly through the leaves. Some of the trees are flower-starred. Some bear unfamiliar fruits, hanging heavy, rotting in the grass and exhaling scent, hints of a strange violent perfume. Translucent silvery globes, golden pears too big to be pears, trailing grapes the colour of ice. She realises then that her fingers are sticky.

She can't stay here. Not because it feels dangerous but because she's got nothing to do. No point waiting around to be rescued. Strange not to have shoes to put on, a bag to sling over her shoulder. She feels naked. Collects some of the golden pears in her hands, just in case, holding them by the stems. When she steels herself to walk out into all that unknown horror comes over her. She is not herself in this dress and she cannot possibly have her own face. Her face must have changed somehow. She stands for a second, caught in terror, and then crosses to a tiny pond a few feet off.

At first she gets a shock; someone unfamiliar is staring back at her from the dark water. Then she sees that it's her. Her mouth is stained crimson with fruit, a barbaric clownish smear. She looks carnivorous and beautiful and Not Herself. A carnival float figurehead. She wipes her mouth on her skirt, and it's a little better.

She breathes in and begins to walk.

 **v**.

Walks and remembers. Dorothy.

My Dorothy, says Charlie, experimentally, seeing how the words sound. My Dorothy.

My Dorothy of the amber-tea eyes. My Dorothy of the slightly twisty smile. My Dorothy of the wanderers. It's not a good name for her but it'll have to do. It's too frothy, too domesticated. Or perhaps she's the one who's too savage for it. She should have been named after Amelia Earheart or Joan of Arc or Nymphadora Tonks. Well. Maybe not Nymphadora Tonks. Or maybe not anyone. Maybe something nondescript like Jane. Something she could have claimed as her own. Charlie's not sure how Dorothy would have felt about sharing a name with anyone, however badass. She suspects Dorothy has a possessive streak. Maybe something to do with how she nearly shot a guy in a bar in Oz who grabbed Charlie's arm, and who even knew Oz had bars, right? Maybe something to do with the chalk circle she drew round her stuff every night to make sure that Charlie didn't touch it. Or maybe it was the way she looked at just about everything and everyone.

Dorothy is not what you would call a woman of few words. But if you cut out the sarcasm, you wouldn't be left with much. She's not big on expression. Charlie doesn't mind. Gets it, even. It's tough being a hunter. Must have been crazy tough being a lady hunter in the thirties. Of course you'd close yourself off. Of course you'd want to keep yourself hidden. No judgement incoming from the Charlie quarter. She suspects it's why Dorothy doesn't mind having her around.

It makes sense, in a strange way, that they would be together now. Even for a little while. Why a dreamer would follow the patron saint of wanderers. Even if said saint does have a stupid name full of doilies and flowery curtains like _Dorothy_. And ride a motorcycle.

**vi.**

Dorothy wakes barefoot with something pulling at her hair. When she tries to sit up it pulls so viciously that she has to lie down again, back against the grass.

Oh, Christ, she says aloud.

Eventually she gets out her knife. It's risky but she manages to twist round, wincing, just enough to chop through the hair tying her to whatever it's tying her to.

She does it without hesitating and it's only a minute later, on her feet and taking in the forest round her, that she feels a strange wash of grief. Not particularly for her hair, which, she now sees, was tied in twenty knots to a low branch. But, yes, for her hair. It was a part of her that was left over from her life before resurrection in the Bunker. Not the only part- she still wears her leather jacket, still has her knife, her journal, her boots- but it had been one of her immortal talismans, and now she has one less.

And without the weight of a braid at her neck she feels strangely cold and naked.

Shakes off the feeling. She was with Charlie, she remembers that much. Red. Red who could be in trouble. Hurt. Or captured. Who must be found immediately and attached to Dorothy via an expedient pair of welded handcuffs so that she can never leave her side again. Dorothy picks a direction with no internal debate and starts walking.

She tries to ignore the beauty of the forest as she moves through the trees, but she can't. Since being recalled to life she's lost that immunity. No longer can she be insensible to snow-shadows; the sun on the silver sea has moved her almost to tears. Strange, that; she remembers nothing of the years she spent in a jar, but they've left a sort of debris in her. She feels brighter, brittle, full of colours. It almost scares her. People like her can't let things change them; that's how they come to break. Because a shaft of light wheedles its way in and illuminates all their hidden pinks and greens and blues.

So instead she concentrates. She walks and takes stock of the forest. She had woken to a dim grey dawn; now sunrise flares like burning feathers. There's the strangest trees, the strangest fruits; fruits like spheres of blown glass, amber and ruby; fruits like golden tongues, leaf-furled. They ought to be safe, she thinks. Dorothy has experience with places like this; has resisted places like this. There is one tree, always just one, that is dangerous, and it will wear its danger like a siren-song.

(And there are things of which she must not think while she is here and alone and it is daytime, like death and tin men and anything complex, and red hair, and the fact that suddenly this new life is no longer monsters and dust, and the fact that she just wants to dial up her dead father and say, _Daddy, I think maybe-)_

Dorothy has a box in her mind where certain things go. They are unceremoniously stuffed in there so that she doesn't have to figure out what to do with them. Currently in there are five (5) items.

A peacock wanders through the trees ahead of her, shimmering, blue-green plumage like alchemists' fire.

 _Item A_. The imprint of a certain silver kiss, given long ago and as yet unfaded. Dorothy is far from virginal. How is it, then, that this remains the true erotic experience of her life? Is it Glinda's crimson-clacking fingernails, far too long, gentle on her jaw as a hand tilts her head up? Is it that first hint of cigarette smoke?

 _Item B_. Here we have another box, Chinese, laquered, with red birds, or sometimes one of those fantastical mirrored extravaganzas, or sometimes black iron padlocked three times over. Home to a hundred shades; mother, father, scarecrow, witch, witch and witch. (She'll keep Charlie out of that box if it kills her, and it might.)

 _Item C_. Mud-greyish. Green. Unutterably beautiful.

 _Item D_. A violin in a violin case.

 _Item E_. _The owl looked up to the stars above, and sang to a small guitar..._

A small addition joins the ranks.

 _Item F_. Locks of brown hair, knotted to a branch, shorn off for convenience, left behind. Her footprint on this place.

She wonders what day it is. Must be getting close to Christmas. The forest would look beautiful stardusted with snow. A huge moth, deep silkgreen like a lady's dress, alights on a gnarled branch. It must be as big as her arm. Making a chirping noise as it sits there.

Hello, says Dorothy.

Wonders if she could follow it. But after a moment it flies off and out of sight.

She begins to walk. Before long she comes to a stream, a brook really, a ribbon of a thing. Perhaps it's the one they saw the other day. She picks a direction and follows it.

When she is hungry she takes fruit from the gorgeous gaudy trees, sweet and strange like nothing else. Thinks of stories: manna, ambrosia. When she is thirsty she drinks from the stream. When evening sets in and stains the sky like a church window, when she is lonely, she crushes it down. Feeling your feelings is all well and good but there are some feelings that are not useful to be going round feeling. And of course there lies the danger, the mud-grayish green danger, of where that particular avenue of thought could lead.

As night falls she heads for a tree that's larger than the others, trunk gnarled and bloated, and lies down under the leaves. Checks the date on her watch. It's the twenty-third. Realises with a shock: tomorrow is Christmas Eve.

Dorothy has never mourned her own isolation. She was a solitary kid, fonder of machines; people were fragile and fleshy and sensitive and behaved in disgusting ways for no reason whatsoever. In recent times, human contact has been the occasional alleyway grope. But Charlie isn't like that; from what Dorothy knows Charlie has always surrounded herself with people, even at her most pseudonymous. Charlie needs all that stuff. And if she's lost too, wandering, this'll be her first Christmas alone.

Of course that's not the end of the world. It's not even a worst-case scenario. Dorothy isn't sentimental.

When was the last time she felt like it was really Christmas? How old was she- eleven? Ten? She wishes it was colder for a moment. The air is so mild and it doesn't feel right.

Dorothy is not sentimental and so this odd shipwreckedness in her gut cannot be anything more than hunger. Or some dim remnant of physical pain.

 **vii**.

HELLO.

Voice in her ear.

HELLO. PRETTY. SOFT. GIRL WOMAN. HELLO.

Scrambling to a sitting position, hand on her knife, flailing.

GIRL, comes the voice. SOFT.

It's morning. Bleak and pale. Dorothy looks round for the source of the voice. It seems to be coming from somewhere within the leaves of the huge tree. She scrambles away from the trunk, knife held out.

And once she's got some distance, after a moment of heavy breathing and listening, she sees it. Green moving within green. An iridescent snake gliding down through the leaves to lean towards her. Eyes unblinking; irises brown, textured, like rabbit fur.

Who are you, says Dorothy. She's not sure what else to say.

The snake ripples closer. She inches back. GIRL, it says. GIRL HUNGRY?

It gives a strange flick of its head, and she follows the gesture and takes in the tree. The tree that she just spent the night under.

Huge, of course. A shade brighter green than the surrounding trees. Yet where other trees hold ornate baubles of faery fruit, this one bears only apples. Crisp and crimson. But innocuous, comparatively. Or at least so they should be. Instead they draw her eyes like nothing else in the forest has. Richness. Darkness. Crimsonness. Low-hanging fruit on an earth-old tree.

Wearing its leaves like an emerald kirtle. Wearing its danger like a siren-song.

GIRL HUNGRY?

No, she says. No. I'm not hungry.

She should turn and run. How dangerous this could be. She needs to find Charlie. But.

She has found the Tree. The one tree that matters. She can leave now- she knows she could, it would be difficult but not impossible. But.

GIRL HUNGRY.

But its leaves are verdant and its apples redfleshed and if she goes now she will not want to wake for dreaming of it. In its possibility: never knowing what it could have done, could have been. And the old old burn of that silvery kiss.

She gets to her feet. Eyes the snake.

What would it do to me? she asks. The fruit, I mean. (Just out of curiosity. Really.)

The serpent hisses, swaying.

KNOWLEDGE.

What do you mean? Knowledge of what?

HEART'S KNOWLEDGE.

What does that mean?

SEE.

See what?

SEE WHO.

Who? You mean- who is in my heart? Like a soulmate?

YES. HEART'S KNOWLEDGE.

She will not want to wake for dreaming of it, and when that silvery kiss burns she will dream of it, and when a throat moves beneath her fingers she will dream of it, and she must know.

Who is in her heart? Does she want to know? Could she live with the knowing? Would it ruin everything?

Would it help?

GOOD TO EAT, says the serpent. SEE.

And, she says, It won't do anything else to me? I'll find out who-? And that'll be all?

YES.

She moves closer. Close enough to reach for an apple. It comes away easily into her hand. Heavy and dark as a heart itself. She curls her fingers around it and it is warm. She wonders if she is only imagining it pulsing a little. Red meat.

Does she need an apple to tell her who she loves? Shouldn't she know? Shouldn't she be able to see inside her own cloisters, her chambers and ventricles? Her inner cathedrals?

Weighing it in her hand.

It could be Glinda. The shadow of a kiss, the first taste of nicotine (Dorothy had smoked for almost a decade after just to recapture it.) Clicking fingernails; hair like gold silk. Smiled like she was laughing. Freckles on her nose. Don't know how old she was, and she kissed me.

Could be her violinist, Prague, 1931; beautiful eyes, collar-length curls, dirty cuffs, a sadness. Cigarette-smoker. Back-room-dancer. Heart-breaker. But she doesn't think about that.

Or it could be Charlie. No point denying that now. Charlie in her sweetness and toughness and the way she winks at Dorothy when she wants to seem daring and cavalier. Charlie in her stupid t-shirts and her shy reading-aloud voice and her bitten nails. And her Princess Leia tattoo.

Funny, that. How her only loves who've stuck are the unconsummated ones. The ones who broke it off or were broken before she slipped into a glissando of romance, or the ones Dorothy was too young or too scared or too jaded to trust with her body. Thinks of Charlie reading to her.

_I was a child and she was a child_

_In this kingdom by the sea_

She brings the apple up to her eyes, studies the sheen, the purity of colour. O Christ.

If it's Charlie. If it's Charlie she doesn't know what she'll do. Maybe kiss her. But if it's not? If it's Glinda, her irrecoverable dream? Would Dorothy spend the rest of her days trying to turn back time to a single nicotine kiss? And if it's Prague 1931 Beautiful Eyes? What then?

If it's no-one? And yet God but she can _smell_ it. Dusky.

She wants to eat it. She wants to know.

She wants it to be Charlie. And because of that she knows it won't be Charlie. Because who you love isn't the same as whose name is branded into your physical beating heart and the gods are never kind. It would be far too easy; there would be no tragedy involved, no desperation of loss. All she would have to do is find her and reunite.

Whoever it is, there must be tragedy. That's just the way it works with this stuff, with this fate and destiny stuff. Charlie doesn't qualify. Goldveined Charlie with whom she has time, and a chance. Goldveined Charlie who doesn't take Dorothy's bullshit.

For Glinda, for Prague 1931 Beautiful Eyes, she considers taking the bite for just one second more. And it's for goldveined Charlie that she sets the apple gently on the grass and walks away.

vii.

Charlie walks.

She comes, eventually, to a rose garden. It's separated by the surrounding trees by a low white wall, and it's long, stretching into the distance. She smelt it before she saw it, scent of flowers like the tattered clothes of dreams.

She enters by a deliberate gap in the wall, marking the start of a path through the garden. Strange how tamed the garden is, with roses laid out in neatly ordered beds, with the pale walls and pathways, when the rest of the forest seems so untrodden.

Walking down the path. The roses on her right are red. The roses on her left are white, and she pauses to breathe them in. A sad, sickly, wonderful scent, and she goes to one knee to smell it again. And again and again. It's beautiful. Beautiful like the ghost of beauty.

Hand heavy on her shoulder. And a voice comes.

See something you like, dear?

She shudders. Twists away, gets to her feet, backing off down the path.

It's a woman; a woman in red, smiling at her. Naked beneath her scarlet cape and fleshy like a nymph in an old painting, skin white as cream. They're close, close enough that Charlie can see how white the woman's eyelashes are, the dead pink of her irises, and her fingers, opulently fat on a pair of pruning shears.

She smiles. Hello, she says.

Hello, says Charlie. She wonders if _please don't kill me_ would be be appropriate, or help.

Did you like my present? she says.

Charlie doesn't answer; doesn't want to ask what she means. The woman laughs. Her teeth are stained brown. (The same shade as her nipples.)

I thought the dress would look lovely against your hair, dear. Such _red_.

Looking down at herself. Back at the woman.

The woman chuckles again. Don't worry, you little thing. As if I'd eat a child like you. What a pill you are!

Oh, says Charlie. Well. Thanks?

Do you like my roses, dear? the woman, the behemoth, says. Here- just smell them. Only the red ones, dear, only the red ones, the white ones aren't for smelling. (Enclosing Charlie's hand in hers, forcing her down to breathe the red roses' perfume, like no rose she's ever smelled before, like a beautiful woman hiding her age with greasepaint, strange and old, and she wants to feel the white roses again instead).

They're, says Charlie. Nice?

Aren't they delicious?

Yep, she agrees. Um. So- if you're not going to eat me. And, I mean, you can see that we're not about to kill you. Can we just, you know, go?

'We'? O, yes, you mean you and that friend of yours. Awful girl- simply stank of the world of men. And what dreadful hair. (A theatrical sigh.) I suppose next you'll be asking me for to put the two of you back together?

Um. That would be nice?

Well, dear, if you insist. I'm not as dreadful as all that, you know. But I do wish you'd give me a little something in return.

A little something? (Swallows nervously.) You mean like a bottle of wine little something or, like, a chop off my foot little something?

Like a kiss, my darling girl.

A kiss. A kiss? What's a kiss?

Well then, says Charlie. Just a kiss? Not like a magic kiss that enslaves me to your will? Just a normal, non-terrifying, no-conditions-apply, no-fine-print kiss?

She sees all the behemoth's sharp teeth when she smiles. Just a kiss, says the woman. A single lovely kiss. My dear, what would _I_ need with fine print?

Well then, says Charlie again. She smooths her hair behind one ear, pulls closed the torn edge of her bodice. If she had a weapon she could have fiddled with that and seemed bolder.

One kiss. Alright. And then I can go?

Wherever you please, dear.

Charlie shuffles. The behemoth lays one cool hand against her face, coquettishly, and leans close, breasts pressing into Charlie's chest. A scent of lilies, a delicate reek. A press of soft lips to hers, and it's over.

The behemoth steps back.

That's all, says Charlie doubtfully.

That's all. My dear, you didn't think I ate _all_ the sweet young things I came across?

Well, says Charlie. Yes?

She tuts. Dear Lord. What will they think of. (Shaking her head.) Then: A rose, dear, as a parting gift?

Charlie, turning away, stops. Thinks of that scent. That sad, sickly, wonderful scent not for smelling.

A rose? she says. You'll give me a rose?

You may have any one of the red roses you like, dear. They're only roses, you know; they can't harm you, but they're the most perfect red roses you will ever see. They will never lose their bloom or die.

What about the white ones? she asks.

White roses, answers the behemoth, are the angels of Death.

(Ah; she had thought so.)

Charlie leans to consider the red roses. They are certainly beautiful. A winedark sea.

Consider it a memento, says the behemoth.

Thank you, says Charlie. She reaches a hand out, trying to choose. But the red roses all seem to be one great mass that churns bloody if she looks at it for too long. She looks at the white roses. Death-heralds; but their throats are full and their thorns are lovely and if she goes now she will not want to wake for dreaming.

Easily enough she reaches out and takes one.

When she has a pale rose in her hand, nothing immediately happens. Then colours begin to flash and flit, and the behemoth makes a battle-cry.

But the behemoth is gone and Charlie is standing in a room, twelve weeks two days fifteen hours eleven minutes and nine seconds from now, and in Fall River Massachusetts, and she is staring down at her own butchered body dead and ugly and lightning-lit in a green bathtub.

Twelve weeks. Two days. Fifteen hours. Eleven minutes.

Nine seconds.

　

Wakes gasping.

Twelve weeks two days fifteen hours eleven minutes nine seconds. Eight seconds. Seven seconds.

She sits up, gingerly, head heavy. One of her hands is wet and sticky. She raises it; her fingers are bloody, still clenching round the white rose. The white rose which is now withered and browned. Death-herald. She is no longer in the rose-garden but some sort of forest glade, and alone. Trees closing like a bell over her head.

So she is to die.

She sits for a moment. There is nothing in her mind except a distant ticking clock. She is wondering whether to lie down in the grass again when someone bursts into the glade, a flurry of leather and terror and glinting knife, and it's a moment before she recognises Dorothy.

Whose eyes fix on hers, metres away.

Is this a trick, pants out Dorothy. As if she's been running.

I don't think so, says Charlie. She looks helplessly back at Dorothy. Who seems to calm a little, coming closer, relieved. And then stops.

Is that blood, says Dorothy.

Um, says Charlie, Probably, but the answer gets lost in sudden movement as Dorothy is suddenly down beside her, wild-eyed with something Charlie perceives as fear.

No, says Dorothy. O God no.

She yanks open Charlie's dress (Charlie quirks a smile). But Dorothy is only rushing to check her over.

O God Red no.

It's minutes before she's apparently satisfied that the only source of bleeding is Charlie's thorn-wounded palm. She tears a strip unceromoniously from the bottom of Charlie's dress and uses it to bind the wound. Only then does she seem to realise that Charlie is essentially half-naked. She averts her eyes, strips off her leather jacket, offers it. It's warm from her skin when Charlie puts it on.

She stands up at last; her head spins but only a little. Realises that Dorothy's hair is suddenly short. She likes it, she decides. And the way it exposes a sliver of elvish and vulnerable ear.

Dorothy offers her her arm, still not looking her in the eye. Only when they turn to leave the glade do they see- Charlie feeling Dorothy's jolt of surprise as well as her own- that a path has opened out in front of them, stretching off through the trees.

As they begin to walk Charlie's mouth burns with the imprint of a silvery kiss.

Is that nicotine?

 **viii**.

They follow the path down to the sea.

Neither of them speak, though as Charlie's mind clears she sees how Dorothy keeps glancing at her, anxiously. It's comforting somehow to have someone worrying about her. And it gives her an odd pang of feeling in a way that nothing has since she foresaw her own death; the knowledge that all Dorothy's efforts at protection will in a few weeks come to nothing.

Slowly the sky begins to lighten.

So what happened to you? Charlie asks.

Dorothy gives an uncomfortable half-shrug. Not much, she says. You know. Woke up with my hair tied to a goddamn _log_ , would you believe. Wandered around for a bit. Then something started chasing me, so I ran, and that's how I found you.

Charlie senses that that isn't the whole story, but it hardly matters. And you never saw what was chasing you?

No.

Oh.

You, then? Dorothy doesn't look at her when she asks. What happened to you, Red? I mean. The dress, the blood-?

The behemoth took a shine to me, says Charlie. She showed me her rose-garden, euphemism intentional. I managed to trade a kiss for safe passage out of here, because I'm awesome.

She kissed you?

Don't worry. She had no designs on my virtue. Well, Charlie amends, No _other_ designs anyway.

Dorothy narrows her eyes. So you're okay? That's all that happened to you?

Yep.

And I don't need to rip anyone limb from limb? It's just. You seem a little.

Off, Charlie supplies.

Y-es.

She smiles at Dorothy and is surprised at how easily she manages it. Funny how you can still smile when you know you've only got a month to live.

Don't worry about me, she says.

I have to, though. I have to worry about you.

Dorothy.

No. You're all I've got.

Charlie doesn't say anything to this because there isn't anything to say. Lifelong promises don't mean much when your life's nearly over. So instead she does what she's been itching to do and reaches over to smooth Dorothy's hair behind her ear.

As they walk the trees begin to thin out. Dorothy stops cold. Hear that? she says.

What?

The sea, Dorothy says. The sea.

The sky is gray now. Salt in the air.

By the time they emerge onto a cliffside with the sea murmuring lowly below them the clouds have turned pale gold. And it's snowing.

Hey, breathes Charlie, Hey, and catches a snow-spark in her palm. No blizzard yet; only the odd gentle wisp floating down. The cold has finally made itself known and she pulls Dorothy's jacket closer around herself.

They sit under a tree, among its roots, on the grass at the edge of the cliff, looking out at the sky and the sea. Charlie's throat aches then. Soon enough all this beauty will be lost to her. Skies. The ocean moan. And the very specific sly quirk of Dorothy's mouth. She doesn't have the time to do everything she wants to do. She can't even begin to think about it.

She looks at Dorothy, who is gazing out to sea. My Dorothy of the amber-tea eyes. My Dorothy of the slightly twisty smile. My Dorothy of the wanderers.

It's not a good name for her, but it'll have to do.

Charlie leans forward, settles her cupped hand round the curve of Dorothy's face, and kisses her. A shocked second. Then Dorothy opens her mouth, kisses her back, hand coming up to rest in Charlie's hair. Warm mouths moving. A strand of Charlie's hair tangles into Dorothy's mouth and she strokes it back.

Finally they separate by some sort of mutual agreement. Charlie smooths Dorothy's hair behind her ear again, feeling shaky, feeling lost. She looks up at the sky and realises-

Hey, she says. It's Christmas morning.

Dorothy gives her a funny little smile. Is it? she says.

Then she squeezes Charlie's arm. Says, I'm not going to let anything happen to you.

Such quiet lovely fierceness. Such brilliance in her eyes, such resolution in her hands. Maybe you're wrong, thinks Charlie, and maybe you're the best human being I've ever met, and you make me want to cry, and you are good.

You and all you other heroes who think a little bravery is all you need. Shipwrecks in miniature. And humans with their strange and tragic hearts.

They sit, cocooned in Dorothy's jacket, and watch the snow fall. Charlie has a sudden absurd wish to grab Dorothy's hand and take her off. Go to Japan, to Norway, to Denmark, to Alaska, to Brazil, to Rome, all the places they want to go, as if they could somehow evade Death just by running. One thing to die before, leaving behind friends and loved ones but no-one who was hers. Another thing entirely now. With a future suddenly narrowed to an hourglass of bright and painful seconds. Feeling each one sliding away: goodbye goodbye goodbye.

　

It's only tragic if she loves her. And it's tragic.

　

Charlie kisses Dorothy's collarbones.

Kiss to left collarbone: you're beautiful.

Kiss to right collarbone: you're really really beautiful and I.

Kiss to winged clavicle: I wish this was everything there was.

Kiss to jawhollow: snow in your eyelashes.

Kiss to eyelid one: I'm sorry you won't be enough to keep me here.

Kiss to eyelid two: please be happy.

Kiss to tiny shoulder-mole: please don't leave me.

Kiss to inner left wrist: please go before you have to see me die.

Kiss to inner right wrist: please see me die.

Kiss to ear-shell: I'm sorry this is an inadequate goodbye.

Kiss to blue vein spidering an arm: miss me when I'm gone.

Kiss to inner thigh: but not too much.

Kiss to shorn hair: you're not my only but you're my always.

Kiss to inner ankle: you're not my most and you're not my everything but you're my chosen.

Kiss to left shoulderblade: I can't help feeling responsible for you.

Kiss to right shoulderblade: I'm sorry that you feel.

Kiss to heaving stomach: I'm sorry but I won't tell you I'm going to die.

I'm sorry for making you care and then causing you pain and if I could do it any other way I would choose this one every time.

Kiss to a hipbone.

Perhaps somehow understanding.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i loved writing this thing. you know what else i love? comments. no, like, really. i read them all over like a million times. i need sustenance, guys.
> 
> unattributed quotes courtesy of edward lear and edgar allen poe.


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